


Best of Seven

by leici



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roberto wishes Marty didn't have to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best of Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Luongo and Turco were both selected as NHL All-Stars for the Western Conference for the 2006-2007 season.
> 
> I shamelessly stole the last line of this story from Joe Sakic. Last season, when the Ducks eliminated the Avalanche from the playoffs in the second round, Sakic shook hands with his former teammate, Teemu Selanne, and uttered that phrase as words of good luck.
> 
> Written May 2007.

The look on Marty's face was heartbreaking. Even as hard as he tried to smile, he couldn't, and Roberto could practically feel the sinking sensation of disappointment radiating off him. When their eyes met, he didn't even have to pretend to be humbled by it, some of the wind taken out of his sails as he saw the surfaces of Marty's eyes swim with anguish.  
  
He'd seen Marty in more vulnerable positions than this. Maybe it was cliché, two Western Conference All-Stars hooking up in a room in Dallas that didn't belong to either one of them. But it had been the combination of the open bar, and Marty's hideous button down shirt, and the way Marty's fingers tangled in Roberto's curls when he patted the back of his neck to say goodnight. And so the goodnight became good morning, and they stayed in bed past breakfast because Marty's wife didn't expect him back anyway, and Roberto's had stayed in Vancouver.  
  
Marty kissed like he played goal. He was good at following the tempo, reacting to whatever came at him, tongue ducking and dodging and moving in ways that made it feel like he'd been kissing Roberto for years, rather than minutes. Standing close now, shaking hands, the connection of sweat and skin, and the sight of the coarse hair lining Marty's jaw; if winning hadn't already geared him up, the touch of Marty's hand would have got him there. He leaned in close because he could, because that's what Marty needed, to hear how it wasn't his fault, not this time. He could smell Marty's skin, practically feel the dampness of perspiration, taste how Marty'd given all of himself to the game, until all that remained was the empty husk of man defeated.  
  
He wanted to take Marty with him. Not home to Vancouver, or to round two in Anaheim, but just off the ice, find some dark corner somewhere and make him forget, just for ten minutes. Take him to another crappy motel and fuck him until he didn't remember game seven, didn't remember his own name. Or let him do the honors, use sex as a punishment, dominate off the ice the way he wasn't able to on it. Roberto loved his wife. But that's how he knew what he felt for Marty wasn't quite love, and yet wasn't exactly not. He wanted to take Marty's pain away, relieve it like a dose of anti-inflamatories, suppress it until it could go away on its own.  
  
There was pale skin beneath all that fabric and kevlar. And under that, the heart of someone who never wanted anything more than to win. But not for himself, and not for his team, but rather for the acceptance and love of the people from whom he put himself on the line. Over and over denied, each time carrying around the blame. Naked and panting and still drunk in bed, he'd peeled back his shell, confiding his greatest fears alongside his deepest desires. Just once, all he ever wanted was to get close enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel before the train ran him down. On that night, Roberto had soothed him, hushed his worries, stilled his lips with sweet kisses. The playoffs were a long way off, no need to worry about them so soon. He never imagined that, all those months later, they would meet for round one, that they would play games that lasted late into the night, the two of them going overtime after overtime, taking and stopping dozens of shots, pit up against each other until the bitter end.  
  
His breath close to Marty's ear, he wanted to ask for another night. He wanted to beg, softly, for the chance to make it better. He didn't. He couldn't. No matter what he did, what kind, comforting things he whispered, how he touched or kissed or moved, it wouldn't change the fact that he'd won. That he'd won, and Marty had lost.  
  
Instead, he complimented his adversary's play, told him how hard it had been, staring down the sheet of ice between them, watching Marty put on a clinic, as it were. He expressed how great it had been to play against him, to see him again.  
  
And, in reply, Marty said good luck. He said it, and he meant it. Even if he couldn't banish the quaver from his voice.  
  
It was twenty seconds, maybe thirty, and there were cameras recording them, flash bulbs popping from all directions. It didn't matter. Time and space stopped existing, and the look they shared before they drew away shattered something between them that could never be repaired. It didn't make sense to blame Roberto for the way he felt, and yet Marty did. It was plain in the shape of Marty's mouth, the set of his eyes. Betrayal, even if it wasn't intended, still stung. Roberto had denied him his chance, and that was unforgivable.  
  
Roberto's hand was cold when Marty released him, and he skated back to his team with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had a lot to be glad for, and the smiling faces of his teammates lifted his spirits again instantly, but he couldn't erase the look on Marty's face from his mind. He carried it with him through all the interviews, and it lingered as he made his way home, slid into bed with his wife. It welled up in his dreams, accompanied by harsh words he'd never heard aloud, by accusations and physical violence.  
  
He woke the next morning, sick to his stomach, prepared to swallow down the guilt that rose like bile in his throat. Instead, he found a blinking light on his cell phone that heralded a message:  
  
`Go get your ring.`


End file.
